


Impersonal

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Series: Salt Burn Porn [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby's Panic Room, Dean as Death, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Season/Series 06, Soulless Sam Winchester, Toppy as fuck!Dean, robo!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4820711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Dean commences his 24 hours as Death, he needs to make sure Sam wants his soul back. Yeah, that goes well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impersonal

**Author's Note:**

> My salt_burn_porn prompt was _I wanna hurry home to you, put on a slow dumb show for you & crack you up_ which I finally translated into Dean on a mission to crack Sam's emotionless facade...
> 
> **warnings.** Guys being dicks. Slightly dub-con as no one clearly knows what they want. First-time wincest.
> 
> Written: January 2011.

Dean sees red.

Sam's back is turned, a massive wall holding the two of them apart. Months now, and Dean has barely made a dent in his brother's robotic facade. He's thrown his anger at it, but it holds. Tread gently around it, but hasn't found a weakness. Even here in the panic room, Sam's glacial impersonality is a barricade Dean can't maneuver around.

And he is fed-the-fuck up.

"I don't want this," Sam says to the iron bars high above his head.

Dean argues, "You don't want anything."

"That's not true," Sam replies with a matter-of-fact tone, completely dry. "I want to keep hunting. Crowley might be dead, but the Alphas—"

"Screw the Alphas, Sam." Dean steps over the fortified threshold, tempted to lock them both in. He's not sure what would make Sam feel worse, and then he remembers why caring about Sam's feelings is a waste. "We need to get you whole again."

"You keep saying we." Sam stalks around the cot, throwing his shadow at Dean's feet. "Like _we_ should want the same things, but we don't. Just accept that. I'm fine."

"You don't even know what fine means. You're not fine."

"What's fine?" Sam turns the interrogation around. "Really," he adds when Dean fumbles, "how do you define it? 'Cause I'm holding myself together, I'm not distracted, and I'm not gonna break. I've got your back."

Dean bristles; the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"I do, Dean. But I'm also still a hunter, and I'm so much better now. I'm fine."

"Yeah? You forgot something in your little encyclopedia definition."

"Did I?" Sam's nose scrunches, a momentary sneer marring his face. "What?"

"You're my brother," Dean snarls, "and Hell or not, I know you better than anyone. You're messed up, and you know it."

Sam shrugs. "Guess we're just gonna have to disagree on that."

Sam's emptiness sparks Dean's rage. His Sam, the one without a vacuum where his soul used to be, wouldn't stand so calmly in the panic room; he'd be worked up and red in the face; he'd be furious. This Sam with the black hole is unconcerned, almost bored. Given Sam's previous experiences in here, his disinterest is disturbing.

Dean hadn't meant to lead them down here, but the steps came naturally. He'd wanted to talk to Sam on familiar ground, and even though that encompasses Bobby's entire junkyard, this room is more than familiar. It's personal.

Sam leans a hip up on the table, weapons scattered around him, none more deadly than Sam himself. He's humoring Dean.

"You're right, though," Sam offers, as if placating is going to get Dean off his case. "I'm your brother, and I know you, too. You want me to be exactly the way I used to be. You were comfortable with that, right?"

Dean shakes his head. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I remember that you weren't okay when you came back from Hell," Sam says, some aggravating pseudo-therapist tone coming out of his mouth. "And I let you be. I did what I could to help you, but I realized you'd changed. I knew I wasn't gonna get you back just the way you were. You should just accept that I'm gonna be different, too, instead of risking your life to give me something I don't even want."

"So you're just gonna leave your soul down there for Lucifer and Michael to rip apart?" Dean's voice tears at the mere thought. "Can't you feel it missing?"

"No."

Dean wants to shout, to rail. But his eyes are stinging, cut down to the quick at the idea of Sam's soul trapped with those monsters. It hurts Dean more than it hurts Sam's vacuous shell, and he wonders, after dying and being resurrected so many times, if there's a part of Sam's soul imprinted on Dean's.

"Look, I can't help the way I came back, but I came back," Sam emphasizes. "Isn't that enough for you?"

Dean doesn't even have to think about it.

"No."

Sam's eyes flash dark and his lips pull tight. "So, it's payback, then. Is that it? You wanna feel strong and supportive, but I'm not letting you play big-brother anymore. I don't need you like that, the way you needed me when you came back, and it pisses you off."

"It's because you're not a whole person anymore, Sam!"

"I'm a better person, whole or not."

"You don't honestly believe that crap," Dean says, but he knows better. "I mean, come on, Sam. You came to find me, remember? You couldn't stay away, but you had to know that when we figured out your soul was gone, I'd try to help you."

"But you're not helping me." Sam won't even raise his voice, not giving Dean the satisfaction of knowing he's getting under Sam's skin. "You're trying to make me into this weak and needy person so you can feel better."

"I'm just trying to make you _you_."

Sam's laugh is the last straw. It's hollow, and hits Dean from every angle as it bounces off the reinforced walls of the panic room. The sound can't escape; it's not even human. When Dean pulls the iron door closed, Sam laughs even harder.

"So, that's why we came down here," Sam says, taunting and viciously playful. "Gonna force my soul back into me?"

Dean circles until he's an arm's length from the table. "You think I'd force you?"

"You'd do whatever it takes to get your submissive little Sammy back," Sam says, repelling Dean a few steps. "That's how you're rationalizing your deal with Death, right? It's just another deal, Dean, and you know how those turn out."

"Yeah?" Dean closes the gap. "How?"

"Badly."

"For who?"

"For everyone."

Dean would argue, but there's nothing left in Sam for him to appeal to. Behind the pretense of looking Sam straight in the eye, Dean stands in front of the table. Sam doesn't flinch at their physical proximity.

"I won't let it go bad." It's meant as a promise, but comes out as a threat.

Sam rolls his eyes. "'Cause you have all that power, right. Face it—"

Dean won't face it. He can't stand to hear another word out of Sam's fucked up, empty conscience. His fist connects with Sam's jaw, getting a dull slap of flesh-on-flesh. Dean only wants to shut Sam up, but the impact takes them to the unfinished floor, cement digging in at all the wrong angles. Dean's emotions are rampaging but Sam remains stone-faced, struggling away from Dean's hands.

"That's your solution to everything," Sam spits, his tone unable to mask how pathetic he thinks Dean is. "If I'm not right according to you, just keep on hitting me."

God help him, that's all Dean wants to do. He's never successfully beaten anything out of Sam—sympathy, ambition, deviance, addiction—but it's hard to fight the urge, the need to lay Sam out.

"Gonna have to try harder than that." Sam gets his knee up, directs it at Dean's stomach and attempts to roll away.

Dean bounces between anger and desperation. They're grinding together—grapple, push, and fight—taking friction from one another almost unconsciously, until Dean realizes that he's hard and Sam is too. Another door, another possibility of getting what he wants, giving Sam what he needs. Dean is fucked in the head for even considering this, but nothing else has worked in six months and Dean's clawing at the end of his rope.

His body's under duress, too wrapped up with Sam to process things rationally. Stirrings of arousal bypass his brain, diverted straight down to his dick where it's been riding against Sam's thigh.

"You think I don't feel that?" Sam goads with a heavy breath. "Think that's gonna scare me into wanting my soul back?" He thrusts up into Dean, no less of an assault but he has a new target.

"Nothing scares me, Dean. Don't you get that?" Sam snarls and his teeth brutalize the bare skin of Dean's throat. The bite gives Dean a second's hesitation but Sam's hips keep rolling beneath him, as if he can turn the tables and frighten Dean off.

Not a chance.

Within the painted circle of the Devil's trap on the panic room floor, Dean fights to keep Sam pliant and pinned, slapping Sam's wrists to the ground every time he raises a hand. Dean's drunk off the assault, sweating in his t-shirt and trying to catch every expression on Sam's face for a glimpse of something old and familiar. All he sees are taunting lips and a mocking brow; Sam's not struggling with excess emotion.

"You want it."

Sam blows him off. "If I say I don't, would that make it hotter for you?"

"I don't care. I'm not listening to a damn word you say."

When Sam hears that, his body stops dead. Dean's through hanging on Sam's—this Sam's—every word like it's gospel. But Sam's not thrown for long. He slithers on the concrete, spray-painted symbols on either side of his shoulders, and his shirt snakes up around his stomach.

"Fine," Sam says. "Doesn't mean you'll get me to shut up."

Dean couldn't care less. He's always tried to please his sexual partners; make their experiences as good as his. Give some measure of softness like it'll help him become a fond memory, because he'll never give them anything else. But he can't find a shred of restraint to use on Sam, going at his mouth with abandon.

Dean's tongue doesn't stop at Sam's lips, driving right inside and shoving Sam's tongue out of the way. No sensuality, Dean only wants to take. He wants to own Sam's mouth the same way he needs to own the soul he's planning on giving back to Sam, but he shoves that thought aside and tears at Sam's lips. First things first.

Sam can't be gentled, his body reacting separately from whatever's going on in his head. Fucking is fucking, and Sam's acting like the sooner Dean gets down to business, the better.

"Get on with it," Sam rasps, throat vibrating where Dean's teeth sink down into the skin. The buttons on his shirt are gone, scattered by Dean's fingers, and Sam's chest is exposed to Dean. He leaves his own ring of bite marks around Sam's tattoo—a sign of possession instead of a sigil against it.

"It's not about what you want." Dean slams Sam's back against the concrete when he tries to sit up. "But if you want out, get the fuck up and go."

Dean's body gives an inch and Sam's muscles loosen a fraction, far from limp but more compliant. There's bound to be little luxury in tonight's sybaritic conquest, but Dean will have his pleasure no matter what it costs. His own soul is broke; he has nothing without Sam's.

"Good." Dean's voice goes husky. "Now pay attention."

He wants Sam to see and feel everything. Dean goes back to Sam's mouth where he leaves no corner unconquered, and dyes Sam's lips dark and wet with saliva. Across the width of Sam's shoulders, marking up all that muscle with teeth and bruising fingers.

Sam breathes hot, clawing at Dean's t-shirt, wearing down the fabric until it rips the length Dean's back and falls to hang off Dean's elbows.

"Son of a bitch."

Sam bares his teeth and laughs. "Can't handle this, huh?" He uses his entire body to stroke Dean's. "I'm not surprised. I'll fuckin' wear you out and leave you crawling. But that's fine," he taunts, "'cause I love you like that."

Dean ignores Sam's smutty smile and tears their shirts all the way off. He clamps his teeth into Sam's jugular, shocked that blood doesn't bloom up from the pressure.

"Harder," Sam insists. "You can't break me, Dean. Do it _harder_. You want to make me bleed? See how good I really taste?"

Dean gnaws harder, biting across Sam's Adam's apple until the skin's as red as Dean's face. He never breaks flesh, afraid of how addicting Sam's blood could be. Dean's already hooked on his brother and there's no rehab for him.

He chances a look at Sam's face while they're rubbing together indecently, Sam's belt digging furrows into Dean's stomach. He's never seen Sam move with such abandon, so totally focused on one end. Passion free from reason, merely ferocious instinct that Dean can't help but mirror. Sam is completely wild and he lures out Dean's hedonism; Sam's there, spread open for him. Why not drown in it?

Sam's lips beg to be smothered. Dean obliges, half from an impulse to twist with Sam's raunchy tongue, and half to shut him up. Sam keeps trying to talk around Dean's lips, and Dean's forced to slap a hand over his mouth, muffling those vulgar details as if hearing them could compel him on.

Their bodies saw back and forth, Dean's jeans stained and torn where the painted concrete roughs up his knees. Any pain is secondary to the pleasure of keeping Sam in his place, too much impatience to deal with anything but the most gratifying sensations. His thigh digs up into Sam's groin, chasing pressure, and Dean throws his head back when Sam's legs squeeze around him. Sam bucks, but Dean's fingers are spread and locked around his biceps. 

Dean doesn't care where Sam wants to be touched or how strongly Sam pushes into his hands. He could translate what he's seen and heard of Sam's former sexual partners into what he might like, but Sam doesn't need that; doesn't deserve the consideration. And the fire—the fuckin' heat of owning Sam—is all Dean can think about.

The violence never abates, feeding into Dean's needs. Whatever he wants—nothing is off limits. This Sam honors no boundaries and has no restrictions. This Sam is entirely pleasure-seeking, no thought given to the fact that it's his own brother threatening to take him. Dean has to ignore the taboo for now, no room for it amongst all the other wrongs in his head.

Sam is mid-moan when Dean backs off, hauls his brother onto his knees, and crowds him against the wrought-iron cot he's all too familiar with. The flimsy mattress sags under Sam's elbows.

"Now we're getting somewhere." Sam hooks his chin over his shoulder, dark eyes evaluating Dean. "What's your plan now?"

Dean claws into Sam's hair, forcing him to look away.

"You don't need to know. You've just gotta take it."

"Just take it," Sam grunts as Dean's hips strike his ass. "Like I'm a fucking whore, Dean? Want me to keep my mouth shut?"

Dean's bought women before; Sam's not in this for connection or closeness. Dean can treat him like a prostitute: bend him, ignore him, fuck him, all without consequence. But it's still Sam, or most of him, and Dean's got to get beyond that—just use him for pleasure. He wants Sam to know he can.

"Hell no, Sammy. You're not gonna be able to keep quiet when I start on you."

Sam's laugh is flippant and way too coherent. Dean wants Sam choking on moans and sobs, gasping until the only thing that comes through is Dean's own name.

Dean leans away, sees Sam's back scratched raw from the floor. Deeper marks darken across the reddened stretch of skin. He expects to see more scars, more than just the superficial damage he's inflicted tonight.

"Remember what it felt like?" Sam arches, throwing the wings of his shoulder blades into dramatic protrusions. "You wanna mark up this new body, too? Make it match my old one? It's not quite the same, Dean, but then you already knew that."

Sam's stomach is skin over steel, thwarting the attempts Dean's fingers make to find give. Nothing wasted in Sam's body or his mind, like he's been reshaped to get rid of anything unnecessary.

The heat under Dean's palm is no surprise when his hand drops below Sam's belt. A solid handful—not something he's used to feeling—but Dean thinks past the strangeness. Sam latches on, vocal and relentless, driving his hips forward.

"Too much for you?" Sam asks.

"Nothing I haven't seen before."

"I know you better than that, Dean. I can feel you shaking."

Dean wills his body still, tightens his hold. He can't allow any weakness to intrude here but he's quickly sinking out of his depth.

"You can stop," Sam taunts, no compassion there. "It's not gonna bother me." 

He says it as if he's pitying Dean's instability, and Dean gets angry. He wants Sam to need this—to go against his own words and beg for Dean's hands, his care, and his affection. 

There's only one direction left for Dean to go in. With his mouth catching the heat off Sam's red, inflamed back, Dean's hand pushes beneath Sam's belt, wrapped immediately in cloying humidity. Sweat tracks down from Sam's chest to slick Dean's grip as he finds Sam's dick and tugs. Sam's shaky gasp is Dean's own little victory.

Sam's jeans do nothing but hinder Dean's wrist. He takes a deep breath and yanks them down with his free hand, shoving Sam's boxers down along with them to bunch above Sam's knees. Like he's restricted by leg cuffs, Sam can only spread his knees so far apart, his ass arching up and out.

"Am I bigger than you imagined?" Sam asks. "Don't tell me you've never thought about it. It's _only_ natural, Dean," he mocks, knowing full well the irony of his words. "I have," he purrs. "Maybe not before, but lately? You always look at me like you don't know whether to fight me or fuck me. That'll give a guy ideas."

Dean's stomach is thrown for a loop; he doesn't want to think about how he's been looking at Sam these last few months. He focuses on Sam's dick instead, unable to look too closely because of the angle.

If anyone told Dean that he'd be giving Sam a reach-around in Bobby's panic room, he'd have laughed and punched 'em right in the kisser. And if they told him it would be voluntary—or even enjoyable—he'd have beaten that person unconscious.

And yet, here they are, Sam's mouth pouring pornographic details out into the room while Dean jerks him off.

"If I knew you were this good, I'd have let you have my dick when I first came and found you." Sam exhales, ribs constricting within the circle Dean's arms make. "Think I could have gotten you on your knees if I played along with your 'poor, traumatized Sammy' act?"

Dean's nails might be blunt and dirty, but Sam hisses like a trapped snake when Dean digs his fingertips into the meat of Sam's cock.

"Shut the fuck up."

Sam's breath comes harder, throat taut from the pain. His voice continues to needle.

"You're not gonna stop now, so why should I?" Sam's hands tear into the old sheets on the cot, ripping away ribbons of fabric. "Make it good for me, Dean. You know you have to..."

Dean doesn't stop to question why Sam's right. He digs into his own bag of jerk-off tricks: long strokes with a rub of knuckles around the head, a tunnel of tight fingers followed by a loose, fluttering hold. Sadistically sensual, he switches tactics until Sam's panting, chin to chest, and the hair on the back of his neck sticks to Dean's forehead in sweaty criss-crossed lines.

"Come on," Sam says. "Harder!" One of his hands slaps back onto Dean's ass, thrusting him forward.

"My pace, Sammy."

"Fuck—"

Dean grins, the first honest smile he's worn since they got to Bobby's. His hips grind against Sam's ass, driven purely by instinct. They're both in that void where conscious thought is tied up and shoved in the trunk—lust taking over for a joy-ride. He tugs harder; Sam fucks through his fingers at a whip-snap pace, pubic bone connecting hard and bruising Dean's skin.

Dean's jeans catch on his dick when Sam tries to yank them lower, but he doesn't move a hand to help. Sam gropes and shifts, blindly working Dean's pants down to mid-thigh before a rough stroke has his hand slapping back onto the mattress, Sam's scream reverberating around the room and back to Dean's ears.

"Gotcha, Sammy."

This is the moment Dean loves. He wants to be there, face-to-face with Sam's dick when he comes, just to see it. It's a bone-deep, gnawing hunger to see someone else get their pleasure from his hands. He loves it with women, pushing his way between their knees seconds before they shudder and wilt during an orgasm. With Sam, he has no idea what he'll see, but he wants. Needs. And if he can't see it now, then maybe next time—

Sam jerks in his hold, come spilling all over Dean's hand. The urge to be disgusted is there but it's smothered by arousal and the feel of Sam's bare ass against his dick, flaunting the pleasure that's just out of Dean's reach.

Sam falls forward; Dean sits back. Dean holds his hand up, tempted in a hollow way to trace the white, sticky lines with his tongue. He shies away and catches Sam's dark eyes watching him, then scowls.

"I'd lick it off, but I don't know where you've been."

Sam's laugh is utterly satisfied. "You have no idea."

"And I'm sure I don't wanna know."

Dean rubs Sam's come between his fingers, warm and slick. Sam smirks, sways his ass in Dean's direction, taunting, "Come on, Dean. You want it..."

"I've got a better idea," Dean warns before slipping his fingers along Sam's spine, all the way down. Dark and forbidden, this is against Dean's rules but his fingers find their own way between Sam's cheeks, pushing in all the wrong places before he gets it right. 

Rubbing Sam's come around the tight hole, forcing it up into him, Dean can't shake his eyes off the sight. Sam's quiet; this is beyond the reach of his foul-mouth. Sam takes Dean's ring finger with a gasp, barely holding the sound together. It's nothing like pleasure—Dean may even be hurting Sam—but Sam cracks with every half-thrust. 

Sam's head falls between his arms. As Dean pushes forward, fucking his finger deeper into Sam's insane heat, his cock forces its way between Sam's legs. Sam reacts, bears forward, and every drop of Dean's blood is caught down in his dick with Sam's thighs as a tourniquet.

"Jesus _fuck_."

Dean's dick is wrapped up tighter than it's ever been inside a woman. Unfair to make the comparison—he and Sam are so far off the charts, they might actually be in Purgatory—but it's staring Dean in the face. Or, technically, writhing at his hands.

"I'm gonna take care of this," Dean moans, pounding against Sam's ass. "You'll get your soul back and—"

"Don't do it, Dean. Don't make the deal if you want to have this again."

"Sam—"

Dean can't stop moving, the snap of his hips imperative. Sam sags into the lashing but keeps his thighs tight. Dean's wrist cramps, the angle all wrong to keep finger fucking Sam. He sacrifices the heat and control to chase down his own orgasm, too far entrenched in this mind-fuck to care about the consequences.

"I'm not gonna want this if you force my soul back in."

"You don't know that," Dean pants against Sam's shoulder, soaking up Sam's sweat through his lips.

"I don't remember wanting it ever before."

Dean chalks his sob up to the squeeze of Sam's legs around his dick, the humid softness of Sam's balls dragging down the line of his cock. This Sam lies—bends the truth or ignores it completely when it suits his needs. He must be lying now because they fit too well together. So well, Dean won't be thinking about anything else the next time he jerks off, stuck with the explicit line of Sam's body laid out in front of him.

"You gonna take that chance, Dean?"

"Sammy!"

There's no blanking out when he comes, blood pressure exploding throughout his body. Dean's conscious to feel every pulse, every shake. His pupils dilate and he slams his eyes shut to escape the lights and the heavy sound of the fan high above their heads. Hiding from the sight of his brother's skin displayed in a way he never wants to forget.

Sam crawls up onto the bed and leaves Dean on his knees. He yawns, stretches, and lays himself out on the cheap sheets like it's his routine.

"I never thought you'd surprise me, Dean, but I guess I was wrong."

Dean aches from the surface down to his soul, but he bares his teeth and draws weary eyes up to Sam.

"I'm just full of 'em."

Dressing is done in silence. Sam only bothers to pull up his jeans, stomach bare and scratched to hell from Dean's fingers. Dean's shirt is ruined so he grabs Sam's torn button-down for the time being. Sam's scrutiny is palpable as Dean crosses to the threshold and turns.

"This'll only take a day."

Sam's expression flickers. "I thought we were on the same page with this." 

Sam looks down at the bed, eyes averted. It's such a _Sam_ moment that Dean's breath stops on the way into his lungs. He has to get Sam's soul back—there's never been a choice. Even if it means what they've just done becomes a fickle memory, the colors and sensations fading to a dull sepia, Dean is ready to deal with Death himself.

Taking one last look at Sam, still able to feel the sharp bite of his kiss and the texture of his come, Dean steps out of the panic room and gives Sam one last warning.

"Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

He doesn't wait for Sam's reply.

 

FIN.


End file.
